Shake it out
by Wolf-lover-girl
Summary: After Adam escapes from jail, he teams up with someone from Sherlock's past to bring him down. Who is this mysterious Moriarty? How does he fit into Sherlock's past life in London? And how does he know to use his rehabilitation against him? Will Joan be able to help him through the withdrawal, or will Sherlock relapse, once and for all? (Potential Joan x Sherlock in later chapters)
1. Chapter 1

_This could potentially lead to death by BBC fans, but I am completely in love with Elementary. The dynamic between Joan and Sherlock, the cases, Sherlock's drug history, just everything is perfection!_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing, that honor lies with CBS and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!_

_Plot: After Adam escapes from jail, he teams up with someone from Sherlock's past to bring him down. Who is this mysterious Moriarty? How does he fit into Sherlock's past life in London? And how does he know to use his rehabilitation against him? Will Joan be able to help him through the withdrawal, or will Sherlock relapse, once and for all? _

* * *

Days spent with Sherlock were usually filled with murder cases, adrenaline rushing deductions and having to listen to muttered sarcastic comments, but today had been a slow one in comparison. He had spent the entire morning and afternoon staring at his phone, as if hoping he would receive a panicked phone call from Gregson informing him that his services were required. He finally caved and phoned the Captain himself after Joan had demanded that he did so, as his staring and silence was even more annoying than his sarcastic commentary and talkative nature.

"I hate the holiday season." Sherlock had muttered as he came off the phone. He had been told to take the week off, since it was after all, two days before Christmas. "People still die even if it's Christmas. Arguments over the turkey could lead to stabbings with a carving knife. Bet he'll want my help then."

She had rolled her eyes, contenting herself with settling in an armchair, watching his furious pacing, his glare every time a Christmas song blared from yet another advert, advertising Christmas trees for half price.

"You really need to get a tree in this place," She mused, eyes glancing thoughtfully at the open space, noticeably empty of decorations, or any sign of the impending celebration.

"Oh yes, let's have a tree in the middle of the living room." He muttered, turning round to face her with a scowl. "Does no-one realize just how ridiculous that is? What's next, we invite the squirrels who used to inhabit it for Christmas tea?" He was now blocking the TV, when the movie she had been watching,_ Miracle on 34th Street,_ came back on. He would pout and claim it hadn't been intentional, but they both know he enjoyed winding her up far too much for that to be true.

"Go be Scrooge somewhere else, some of us want to watch this." She batted a hand at him, signalling for him to move, and it was with extreme dragging of heels and mumbled comments about, _"You know, this is technically my house."_ She threw a pillow at him, and she couldn't help a smile at the sound of his good-natured chuckling as he left the room.

The film only had half an hour left, and as the closing credits came on, she stretched a little, cramped from sitting curled in the armchair for a couple of hours. She flipped channels, searching for something for her and Sherlock to watch. She was trying to convince him to give Grey's Anatomy a go, since it was a classic, and he might learn something about medicine practice something that could potentially come in handy in the future. He had laughed for a full hour, loud, ear-shattering rumbles of laughter that had been too contagious not to crack and break into a grin, at the idea of him learning anything.

She paused as she flicked past a news channel, stopping on it for a second. A mugshot of a man, relatively young and broad, had appeared on the screen, with the caption underneath screaming, **_"Abused, deranged child kidnapper escapes high security jail._"** She had to give it to them, they certainly knew how to grab someone's attention. The scene went from an empty cell to a studio, where they were discussing if the teen was simply insane from his life experiences, or a hardened killer. It wasn't until they spoke his name when she remembered exactly why she recognized the man.

_Adam Kemper._

She stared at the screen, even after the segment had ended and moved onto the weather. She remembered the case well, remembered the furtive, cunning look in Adam's eyes. Sherlock had casually mentioned their conversation in the park in passing, clearly unperturbed by the fact that Adam seemed to be harboring a strong grudge against him. Even still, he would probably be unbothered, waving a hand and saying that the police would get him eventually. But she had to tell him, had to warn him in the worryingly high possibility that Adam would try something against him.

She knew Sherlock would be around the flat somewhere, hopefully not in the shower reviewing cases again. The Captain was becoming increasingly frustrated that his files were returned soaking wet and illegible. Thankfully she was saved her sanity, and he was lying fully-clothed on the kitchen table, scanning a file. He barely glanced up at her as she entered, a brief nod the only indication he was aware of her presence. As she set about making them coffee, she decided to come straight out with it. "Adam escaped from jail."

His eyes flitted up carelessly towards her, before returning to the scraps of paper. "Its surprisingly easy to do so actually." He murmured thoughtfully. "During preliminary medical examinations, claim to be diabetic, receive insulin in a needle and bam. Weapon." His eyes never left the papers as he spoke, clearly not processing what he was saying, consumed with the details of a new potential case.

"You aren't worried?" Joan asked, stirring sugar into one of the mugs, purposefully not in his. Sleep-deprived Sherlock was bad enough. Caffeine and sugar high Sherlock? Even Mother Theresa would lose her patience.

"Why would I be?"

"After what he said to you at the park?"

This made him frown, finally setting the papers aside and accepting the mug with a grateful nod. As he sipped, his free hand traced one of the tattoos on his wrist, something she noted when she first met him that he seemed to do if he was in deep thought about something. "I'm sure he has higher priorities than trying to do something to me." He said finally, setting the barely touched coffee on the table, before pushing himself off and sauntering into the living room as his phone rang. His eyes lit up at the caller ID, and grinned broadly at Joan.

"Captain Gregson. What can I do for you?" He answered, leaning upwards onto his toes before back onto his heels, excitement raging through him. Joan joined him in the living room, pulling on a jacket as she saw him do the same, hurriedly pulling on his shoes. He stopped for a second, lips parting a little. Something that resembled worry passed in his eyes as he glanced at Joan, before saying, "Yes, I understand the risks, but if it helps in his recapture then it's not an issue then, is it?"

Gregson was clearly arguing with him about it on the other end, but Sherlock turned, cradling the phone in a way that no sound could be heard on Joan's part. She made a face to his back, waiting for him to finish the phone call so she could interrogate him. "It's not as if I'll actually be talking to him, plus, you should have a little faith in the skills of your police force. I don't, but if it makes you feel better, you should." He ended the phone call and pocketed his phone, pointblank ignoring the fact she was shaking her head.

"What's the case?" She asked cautiously, noticing his prior excitement had ebbed to a furrowed brow and blank gaze as he stared into space, clearly thinking deeply about something. He blinked and glanced carelessly in her direction as he walked towards the door, motioning for her to follow.

"We've been asked to assist in investigating the location of one Adam Kemper." He murmured, smiling lightly at her as he opened the door and bound into the semi-darkness. She stopped in her tracks, eyes wide, mouth falling, but he was striding forward without a care in the world, so swiftly that she had to run to catch up with him.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I still own nothing. Sigh. _

* * *

"-Not to mention dangerous, suicidal, did I mention crazy?"

"Only about six dozen and three times."

Joan's hissed tirade was, as to be expected, largely being ignored by the consulting detective, who was watching Gregson and Marcus interview the prison guards. He was frowning, in particular at the brunette prison guard, who was around Marcus' age. He was buff, forearms lined with intimidating muscles, but it wasn't that reason which merited the gaze of Sherlock.

"I'm serious." She stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the interrogation. "This guy is a nutjob, Sherlock, he already pulled one over on you."

He looked down at her with a resigned sigh, leaning backwards against the wall. "Look, all I have to do is help them find him, alright? Then he goes back into federal prison, and yay for us, we don't need to worry about impending doom."

She blinked a few times, scarcely believing _Sherlock_ had just said the word _yay_. This was him though, with his irritating tendency to over-use abbreviations in texts. "Fine. But if we come into contact with him, you're leaving, no questions asked."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware you were my mother." He snorted, stepping sideways so he could continue gazing at the man in relative peace. She was about to retort back when she noticed his staring, and faltered in her response.

She tried to follow his gaze to see what he was staring at, but all she could see him staring at was...

"Why are you staring at his socks?"

Now she was worried. Him staring at sand granules and cups of coffee was odd, but part of his eccentric nature. This, however? Was strange, even by his standards.

He gaze her his trademark, _'Isn't it obvious?'_ look, but she merely returned it with a partially raised, questioning eyebrow. With the air of someone teaching a three year old, he pointed to the mans socks, facing her again. "They don't match."

She blinked once, staring at him, almond eyes meeting sea foam Hers, skeptical, his, alight with the feverish excitement she associated with him discovering something new. "Wow. We need to tell CNN, people need to know this."

He pouted at her exasperatedly, before turning on his heel to face the interview room again, when he saw the guards had already left, Marcus and Gregson clearing up the files, indulging in friendly banter. "No!" Sherlock exclaimed, frustration punctuating his tone as he rushed from the room, blazing in to their extreme bewilderment.

"Where's the fire?" Marcus chuckled as he adjusted the chairs, about to depart, but Sherlock's lanky frame was blocking the door.

"You just let our prime suspect walk out of here!" He blazed, barely noticing as Joan collided with him, trying to catch up with him.

"What are you on about now?" Gregson approached him, trying to edge past him, but Sherlock only moved so Joan could get in the room, resuming his spot in front of the door. "

_"His. Socks. Didn't. Match."_ Sherlock stressed each syllable, half a second away from slapping his palm against his forehead. God, how could these people be so slow? The evidence of the connection between Adam and the guard was staring them point-blank in the face, he could see now, even looking at the photograph of Adam they had on the desk, how they were related.

"We can't arrest someone because the have unmatching socks Holmes." Gregson was on the verge of laughter, but he could see how much this was affecting the man, so he kept his snorts to a minimum.

"Fine. You know what? I'm gonna prove it to you." He pointed at Marcus and Gregson, and, before they could even begin to protest, he exited the room in a flurry of navy coat and red scarf.

Marcus was about to go after him, maybe arrest him before he did something stupid like take a picture of a steroid junkie's socks, but Gregson put a hand on his arm, shaking his head.

"Let him. Otherwise he won't stop pestering us."

Marcus let out a laugh, shrugging before continuing to pack up. Joan was left standing there, speechless. Something had definitely unhinged the detective, even he had the sense not to run after people and accost them on the thought that they were involved in Adam's escape. Then again, this was Sherlock they were talking about here. He could see things others couldn't, see beyond the human eye.

What if he was right?

He usually was, wasn't he?

Another thought, ultimately more terrifying than the first.

What if he was right, what if the prison guard had been involved in Adam's escape, was under his payment? What if they had some sort of agreement?

Then Sherlock was walking right into a trap.

Her widening eyes alerted the Captain that something was wrong, and concern instantly lit his eyes as he closed over a book. "You okay there, Miss Watson?"

Her eyes tore from the wall to meet his eyes, breath emitting in short gasps. "Where...Where did they prison guards say they were going? When they left?"

Gregson and Marcus exchanged a baffled look, evidently wondering if working with Sherlock had caused her to begin a spiraling descent into the pits of paranoia and insanity. Prolonged exposure to him did that. Working with him during the day was difficult enough, he may be a genius, but he was to put it lightly, on the brink of insanity. "Uh, they came here in a blue Ford." Gregson recalled, glancing to Marcus for confirmation, who nodded. "Is that impo-"

Before he could finish, she had already rushed from the room, leaving the two officers in her frenzied wake. She broke into a run, propelled by the thought that something could be happening to him. No, she was being paranoid, right? The man had no connection with Adam at all, and she would find Sherlock in the parking lot, angrily muttering about how _it had looked as if he was Watson. Nobody is right 100% of the time. _She took little comfort from this, as she flew past startled officers, ignoring the bizarre glances she was getting.

She skidded to a halt at the parking lot, tense eyes scanning the area, with only a handful of cars left, since it was the holiday season after all.

Their car was gone. Black skids marks were the only indication that they had been there.

As well as a small pool of crimson and Sherlock's scarf.

* * *

_*melodramatic music plays*_

_Hope you liked! Remember to review and all that if you have time, it means a lot! :)_

_And don't worry, the whole mismatched socks thing will be explained in due course ;)_


	3. Chapter 3

"I think they've taken him." Joan had returned to the main body of the police station, to Captain Gregson and Detective Bell, who were in the Captain's office, trying their best to assure her that everything was under control.

"It takes 24 hours to get the data from the security cameras back. We have no evidence." Gregson pointed out, reclining back in his chair. He seemed unrattled, calm to the point of which Joan wanted to shake him, propel him to take action. Something was wrong. She could feel it, something off in the air. Of course she didn't voice that to the police officers, they would surely just brush it off.

"What about the blood? His scarf?" Her hands gripped the slightly blood-stained scarf tightly, holding it close to her. Sherlock's scent, which reminded her of warm, sunlit afternoons in the park, still remained, still warm from being constantly around his neck.

"We can't instantly put out a warrant because he might have tripped. The man's a liability to himself, he probably got distracted and fell over his own feet."

"Then where would he go? Why isn't he answering my calls?" Joan demanded, placing her hands on either side of his table, forcing them to look at her, to pay attention. She wouldn't stop, rest, until they did something, took action. The very idea that Sherlock was in danger made her shiver, swallowing a sudden lump in her throat.

"He could have went home, to change. His phone could be broken, or dead." He listed these off with the air of someone beginning to grow frustrated. He had been under a lot of hassle at work recently, demands at how Adam had escaped being fired at him. He didn't have the time, nor energy, to deal with her worry that Sherlock had probably wandered off somewhere.

She flinched at the word dead, tension building in her shoulders. The Captain seemed to notice and looked apologetic, before finally gestured for Detective Bell to leave. Suspicion was evident in his eyes, but he obliged, and when the door clicked shut, Gregson finally looked at her again.

"Look, I get why you're worri-"

"This is the first time I'm not worried about him relapsing!" Her building dismay he just wasn't _getting it _becoming increasingly evident. "He clearly made some connection between Adam and the guard-"

"Ryan."

"-And they've taken him!"

"Look, Miss Watson, I get it. Sherlock is my friend, but I can't just send out a search time without concrete proof."

She still clutched the scarf in her hands, glancing from it to him, and he placed a hand on the small of her back, leading her from the room. "Look, why don't you go home, see if he's there, see if he left a note saying he was going to visit a friend?" It was clearly a dismissal, a polite, but firm one. He was a busy man, he had a whole division to run, an angry public to deal with, overworked cops, he simply didn't have the time right now.

"Fine. But if he's dead, I'm holding you personally responsible." She didn't know where the statement came from, and instantly regretted it the second she said it. _What was wrong with her? Why was she shaking so much, why was she so terrified of the idea of losing Sherlock? _She pushed the nagging thoughts aside and started to apologize, but he waved it off, and they exchanged one, final look, before he closed the door, and she rushed to get back to the apartment. If Sherlock was there, she would probably hug him, then slap him, then not speak to him for the rest of the night for scaring her like this.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes slowly opened, a soft groan leaving his lips as his head began to pound. His mouth felt dry, the world dull in colour. His shoulder was awkwardly jammed in an uncomfortable position, but he lay still, breathing softly.

"I'm a couple blocks away, cool it. Those dumbass cops took ages to question us." The driver was male, his voice deep, scratchy. _Great,_ Sherlock thought with bemusement. _Been kidnapped by a redneck. This day just keeps getting better._

His groggy eyes glanced down at his hands, but they were lashed together painfully with metallic handcuffs that bit into his skin. He studied them carefully, before looking upwards, trying to gauge their location, but it was too dark to see anything out the window. He glanced around surreptitiously, not alerting them that he was conscious, locating a small safety pin on the floor beneath the driver's seat, just within reach.

However the second he extended his hand, fingertips just brushing against his potential savior the car screeched to a halt. He felt rough hands grabbing his shoulders, yanking him from the back of the car, knocking the breath from his lungs. He groaned audibly as his back hit the stone floor of a warehouse, rolling onto his front. He tried to push himself up, managing to get onto his knees, before a swift and accurately aimed kick sent him crashing back down again, a loud, painful to hear cracking noise echoing the small room.

He coughed, wincing as he rolled onto his back again. His eyesight was still fuzzy, but he could make out the leering form of someone above him, smirking. His mind journeyed to the mobile in his pocket, something which they had clearly forgotten. It was turned off at the moment, to conserve battery since he was too distracted by flurry of thoughts and deductions to remember something as dull as charging it. If he could turn it on, they could track it to his location. Joan would worry, it was her primary personality trait. And right now, her worry could save his life.

"Did you miss me, Sherlock?" This voice wasn't Adam's. This was a voice he knew far too well. The voice of a snake, rich like velvet, smooth, the voice of a man who got everything he wanted. Malevolence tainted his words, vicious triumph exuding from him in waves.

"I should...have known." Sherlock muttered, coughing loudly. "You have a flair for dramatics." He couldn't comprehend how, or why, the man from his past was here. The man who had haunted his every waking hour. The man whose actions had caused his drug addictions in the first place. Just the sound of his voice triggered the unleashing of memories he kept firmly in the back of his mind. Red hair swirling in the wind, like an open flame. A strangely accurately euphemism for her. Wild, untamed, unpredictable. Even when he found her lying dead in his apartment.

"And you are oh so predictable, Holmes. I knew you would make the connection between Ryan and Adam here." Moriarty stood back, not giving Sherlock time to have a proper glimpse of him, to see how much he had differed, if at all, since London. He could now see Ryan and Adam clearly standing beside each other, saw the similarities that others had evidently overlooked. The same stance, crossed arms, weight primarily leaning on their left leg. Same fleck of hazel that was barely noticeable from this distance.

"I read Adam's file. Red-Green colour blindness." Sherlock winced again as he dragged himself onto his elbows, glancing from the two men, who were silently standing side by side, strong and silent.

"Which is what, exactly?"

"A recessive, sex-linked condition. Primarily seen in males, as it affects the Y chromosome. Usually passed from father to son." He snapped, the way he spoke as if he was a patronizing teacher flaring his temper. "Steroid in the corner was wearing unmatching socks. One was red, one was green. I could have passed it off that it was a coincidence they both had the condition, but the fact that he guarded the exact same cell block which Adam so coincidentally happened to escape from? And the same Southern accent? I'd say half-brothers."

"Very good, Holmes. It appears your deductive skills haven't faded since our last encounter. Although, it appears in all of your reasoning, you walked straight into trap."

"A spider's web." Sherlock corrected, attempting to keep him talking, in order to give himself time to turn his phone on. It was his only chance of letting Gregson and Joan know his location.

"Spider's web indeed." Moriarty nodded, lips curled with dark amusement as he leaned forward, tapping against Sherlock's pocket with his foot, causing the mobile to fall out onto the floor. Sherlock tried to stop him, lunging forward with a desperate yell, trying to push it out of reach, but it was to no avail. His heel crushed the phone, smashing the screen and phone into several pieces.

Well. Looks like plan B failed. And by the looks of things, he wouldn't be alive long enough construct a plan C.

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_I learned about red green colour blindness in Biology, and thought it was the sort of thing he would know about/notice haha :) Hope that explained the whole sock thing accurately enough :L_

_Remember to rate and review if you have time, it's like being paid for me!_


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock watched with hooded eyes as Moriarty brushed the remains of the mobile aside with his foot. His last remaining hope, chance, prayer, it was gone. In the blink of an eye. What use was genius now, what use were his deductions, when he was trapped here with the man whom he hated with every fiber of his being, and who probably felt the same in return? His skills were useless now, in the time when he needed them the most.

"What do you want, Moriarty?" He finally sighed, feeling whatever resistance left in him begin to fade slowly, acceptance that he wasn't leaving here unscathed, that no-one was coming to help him, sinking in. "You get bored without tormenting my every footstep? Latest toy die a little too soon?" He may have accepted his inevitable fate, but that didn't mean he was going down easily. He was stubborn like that, Joan would clamor to verify this.

"Who said I wanted anything?" He asked innocently, reclined against a wall, watching him with contempt.

Sherlock glared at him, growing impatient at his toying, his persistently frustrating attitude. "Fine, different question. How did you know I was in New York?"

Moriarty sighed and approached, kneeling before him. This gave Sherlock the opportunity to finally look at him. His eyes were a bewitching seafoam colour, with shreds of ice near the pupil. His night sky coloured hair was sticking up from his skull in one smooth, small quiff, parting down the side. He knelt so close to him that he could see every line of his face, see the crease in his eyes as he smiled. He was older than Sherlock, but barely. Whatever youth lay in his early to mid 30's appearance however, was cancelled out by the weight of his eyes, the promised darkness within.

"Your brother is extremely naïve. Posing as your concerned," His tongue caressed the word, his teeth bearing in an amused smirk, "Friend, I made inquiries about where you had run off to. He was so eager to help Sherlock's police friend, especially when I was equipped in the uniform. He told me you had relocated here, and were in rehab. Curious, I thought. I didn't know Miss Adler's death had affected you to the point of extreme drug use."

"She didn't die," Sherlock spat, hatred blazing from his now cold eyes, "You killed her. Post-mortem returned with nothing. It was passed off as natural causes, even though she was young. Who did you pay? Must have been a close friend. Then again, friends aren't something someone like you have, right?"

"I hardly think your one to talk." He chuckled lightly, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. His entire body tensed instantaneously, glaring openly, loathe in his eyes. "The only so-called friend I see you with is your sober companion. What was her name again? Joan?"

His jaw flexed rapidly, muscles unwinding and tensing. He couldn't let him do this again. Get under his skin. Last time that had happened, he had found his one weakness. Irene. Of course, she refused to go into police protection, despite his best pleading. He remembered the light, musical note of her laughter as she sauntered away from him, the last time he had seen her alive.

_"You worry too much. I'd like to see someone try and hurt me."_

But they had. She had been a flame, her fires extinguished because of his arrogance, because of his damn selfishness that had led to him continuing the case. The string of murders across London seemed unrelated, but he had discovered the connection, and in it, Moriarty.

"Maybe I'll pay her a visit after we're done here. Then you'll add another to your body count." He stood then, prying around the inside pocket of his navy overcoat.

"You touch her, and I'll kill you. Don't make the mistake of thinking I'm the same as them. The police, the, lacking a better word, good guys. They wouldn't kill you, but touch her, and I will." His voice was low, dangerous, but he kept any tone of resentment from his words. He had to try and remain calm.

Maybe this could have worked if Moriarty hadn't extracted the syringe from his pocket.

He knew what it was immediately. Even if he couldn't tell by the needle, or the liquid, it would make sense. Moriarty didn't want to kill him. No, that was too easy. He wanted to be intricate. To break him for a second time with what had very nearly broken him the first.

"Well, nonetheless, I'm sure she'll be unhappy to see all of her work as your charming sober companion come undone. Its a shame really, all of her dedication undone, so easily. With just one injection." He sighed theatrically as he traced the needle with his thumb with a look of mock regret.

"Don't do this. You're making a huge mistake." He exhaled sharply, eyes trained on the contents of the syringe. Heroin, most likely. He tried to shuffle backwards, but found his exit pathway blocked by the two brothers, who stood behind him.

"Told ya I would be back." Adam sneered, reaching over to slam fists with his brother, who sniggered.

Sherlock barely paid him mind, too focused on the advancing figure. One injection was enough, he was right about that. If he experienced the high again...He didn't know if he would be able to keep himself away.

"Your reaction tells me I'm not." His free hand took a hold of Sherlock's forearm, hands surprisingly soft for a mastermind, homicidal criminal, but grip too powerful to escape from, especially handcuffed. "You should have listened when I warned you not to interfere. Consider this payment. The game's just beginning, Holmes. And something tells me we both know who is going to end up triumphant."

Sherlock tried with all the desperation and strength he had to escape, like a wild animal caught in a trap. His violent efforts were useless however.

The needle slammed directly into the veins of his forearm, Moriarty pressing the plunger within seconds.

* * *

_Wow, I feel really evil, haha!_

_Thanks for all the lovely reviews, they're much appreciated!_


	5. Chapter 5

Sheer bliss. Pure, raw, untainted euphoria. A million emotions at once, yet he felt nothing. Didn't feel the metal cutting into his wrists as he listlessly moved his hands, didn't feel the throbbing ache in his shoulder. He was had never felt so alive, yet dead. The sensations were all too familiar to him and he felt as though the period in which he hadn't touched drugs had never occurred. Everything that happened in between his last injection and now were irrelevant.

They had left, yet he barely noticed. The door was wide open, as if they wanted him to leave. Did they? He didn't know. Didn't care. Didn't...Didn't what? They wanted him to try and escape, didn't they? Wanted the police to find him staggering in the street. They had completed the final brush of their masterpiece, and now all to be done was to watch the carnage from a safe distance, out of reach as he tried to pick up the shattered pieces of his life they had destroyed with one action. Every ounce of self-restraint he had used, the darkest times in rehab when he had been _that _close to indulging himself, just once more, for old times, they were all wasted now. Everything he had worked for, everything Joan had helped him with, it was all for nothing.

"Dammit." He muttered, holding his temples, banging his head off his palms repeatedly. His brain was refusing to co-ordinate, refusing to do anything bar pound painfully against his skull. Somehow he found his feet, leaning backwards heavily against a wall. As he slowly progressed towards the door, the fuzziness atoning every inch of air grew rapidly before suddenly throwing him into clarity, causing him to pause, yelling with frustration. He finally reached the door, clutching it as if it was driftwood during a tempest, breath exhaling in sharp rasps.

There was no-one on the street as he peered his head out, attempting to gauge his location. There was signs, hints everywhere of where he was and if he was in his usual state of mine, he would probably have a latitude and longitude by now, but all he could work out was that the banging in his head wasn't from someone playing drums. He decided to walk in the first direction his feet took him, which was to the right. Who knew, maybe it was subconscious genius, or maybe he was walking directly into the worst areas of New York, but he walked in that direction anyway.

He didn't know how long he had been walking for, only that he was beginning to recognize where he was. The bank a couple of streets away from his house. The car whose alarm always went off for no apparent reason. He didn't notice as he wandered right past his house, until he heard a woman's cry of, "Sherlock?" He turned, instantly regretting the action as the world now completely blurred, and he found himself swaying, only the woman's hands on his shoulders keeping him on his feet. "Oh my God, are you...What happened? Can you hear me?" She sounded half-hysterical, panic was increasingly evident in her voice, in the way she helplessly tried to work out what had happened.

He stared at her unblinking, lips parted slightly as his addled mind tried to decipher her words. His expression of confusion and the way he wasn't blinking...No, he couldn't be high, could he? He hadn't touched drugs in months, why would he start now? "Sherlock," She pleaded, gently leading him to sit on their front steps. He followed blindly, barely paying attention to what was happening, following the woman without question. Her hands lifted his from his lap, hands tracing across the metal joining them. Who had done this? Someone with a serious grudge against the detective, clearly. But why had they let him go after shooting him up? It didn't make any sense to her. Hopefully, when, or if, he recovered, he would be able to explain.

Until then, she had to look after him, something which would be a lot easier if her heart was beating at a rapid rate that would probably tattoo against her ribcage. "We need to get you to a hospital, okay?" She asked gently, standing and placing a hand on his arm, attempting to get him to stand.

He seemed to snap out of it at this though, and jumped to his feet. His eyes were still wide and unfocused, his hair making him look as if he had just woken up. "Hairclip. Gimme." He snapped his fingers impatiently, pretending not to notice the glare that she gave him. The glare didn't quite work however, as there was far too much concern to be passed off as annoyance. She quickly extracted the clip from her hair, handing it over without question. He began to apply it to the cuffs, attempting to pick it without success. It required total concentration, something which he didn't have at the present time. "Screw it." He muttered, voice broken and rough-edged, something which made her flinch at the difference from his usual soft British tone. Instead of thinking rationally, or waiting for her to attempt freeing him, he approached a nearby lamppost, wrapping his arms around them.

"Uh, Sherlock? Why are you hugging a..." She began, but before she could finish her question, he rested one foot against the pole, yanking his arms backwards, severing the links between the handcuffs, which still hung from his wrists, but now he had increased mobility in his hands."Much better." He said with flourish, shaking his hands and looking dazedly over at her, as if he didn't know who she was. He did know her, didn't he? Professional privacy invader. That's what he used to describe her sober companion occupation, wasn't it? Or did he just call her that in his head? Nonetheless, he said it aloud anyway, accompanied with a, "I think you're going to be receiving a pay cut, Miss Watson."

So he did know who she was. Great. Good. Watson. Joan. Disgraced surgeon. The pieces were joining together like a jigsaw, helping him gain some clarity. She was talking to him again, with that concern, words that made no sense to him. Hospital. She wanted him to go there, didn't she? Why? What could they do for him there? _Keep him there for monitoring. _No thank you. He was fine. He was going to be fine. He needed a mobile, needed to tell Captain Gregson that Ryan had been the one to help Adam escape from jail. "Mobile."

Her request made her frown, but she figured it was probably best to entertain his wishes right now, so replied,"It's...in the house. Want me to go get it?"

"No. Not enough time."

There was a man in a pressed suit walking their way, in deep argument with someone on the other line., Whether or not it was his wife he was arguing with, or a business executive, they would never know, as Sherlock stood directly in front of him, blocking his path. She had to resist the urge to face palm and drag him away, but he was already talking.

"Sir, I'm going to have to request for use of your mobile device." His American accent still astounded her every time he used it. How could someone British have a better American accent than most Americans? It didn't commute to her. The second the man started to complain, Sherlock rummaged around his pocket, withdrawing a shining silver police badge.

It belonged to Marcus.

"You stole Detective Bell's police I.D? You do know that's breaking what, three, maybe four laws?" She hissed, but he silenced her by placing a finger on her lips. "Hush. I'm working."

"This is Captain Gregson speaking, how can I help?"

"It's me. Sherlock. I was right. Check the paternity of both the prison guard and Adam. Call me when you have both in custody, I want to be there for the interrogation."" He was fighting to keep his voice steady and neutral, she could tell, but it was a battle he was already beginning to lose. His voice would quaver and break as he spoke, rushing so Gregson wouldn't have time to ask him what was wrong. He hung up and handed the phone back, nodding at Joan.

"Hey, what happened to you-"

"You can go now. Thanks awfully for your help." He waved a dismissive hand at the man, who muttered some profanities before storming off, leaving the two alone on the sidewalk.

"Right, now we need to get you to a hospital." She ordered, striding forward to hail them a passing taxi, but he grabbed her arm. Well, tried to, because he missed her arm by a mile and instead mildly grazed her side as he stumbled forward, half-collapsing against a car. He covered his ears with a loud groan as the car alarm went off, shattering his eardrums.

"No hospital. I'm fine." He tried to smile reassuringly, but the fact that he couldn't stand upright and was resting against the car to support himself proved otherwise. She gave him _that _look, the look he had become so familiar with that he actually did manage to smile, just a little. But she was persistent and he knew she wouldn't rest until he agreed to go. "Please." He didn't make eye contact with her as he spoke, eyes trained on a piece of discarded chewing gum on the pavement.

The pleading edge to his voice highlighted the hidden vulnerability he was giving her an insight to. He didn't want to have to go to a hospital, be asked constant, persistent questions. Have to deal with the looks when he made up some excuse to hide the truth. What could he say? That his arch enemy from London injected the drugs into him to stimulate a breakdown? No, it would be difficult enough explaining that to Joan when he came down from the high. She finally made a mumble of agreement, and took one of his arms, wrapping it around her shoulder as she half-carried him into the house, surprised at his whispered _"thank you." As she opened the front door, one thought was mutually running rampant through their minds._

He wouldn't be able to avoid explaining this one.

* * *

**_Sorry it took so long for this one! Made it an extra bit longer than usual to compensate ;)_**

**_As usual, I can't thank you all enough for the continued reviews! Keep 'em coming! _**


	6. Chapter 6

Silence wasn't something she associated with Sherlock. Silence during his periods of intense concentration yes; when he was deducing, or engrossed in a book about beekeeping, but even during the early morning hours he was talkative, going off on tangents about how the woman on the subway was having an recently divorced since the skin where her ring should be was a few shades lighter than her skin tone. It had been a full two hours since she had found him outside, and if he was over the high, she couldn't tell. The second she brought him inside, sat him on the couch, he had muttered something about not phoning his father, and began gazing into space, saying nothing else. No explanation of what had happened. About how and why he had disappeared, and why there was blood on his shirt and handcuffs on his wrists. It didn't take a genius to work out the rough outline of what had happened, but the question that lingered in her mind as she watched him silently stare at air was _why? _Why had they done this to him? Sure, Adam wasn't very fond of Sherlock, but surely he had a larger agenda? This wasn't a simple-minded attack of revenge. No, this was too perfectly choreographed and executed.

As the clock hit the 5 o clock mark, exactly signalling it had now been 2 hours and 3 minutes since she found him, she decided to speak up. Unsure of how to approach him when he was like this, wondering if he was still experiencing the effects, she sat on the other end of the couch he was occupying, gazing at him. She half-hoped he would turn to face her at the actions, but he remained stolid, lips sealed. The only indication he gave of acknowledging her presence was the briefest flicker of a nod, but she could have been imagining it in the light. "We're going to have to talk eventually." She said quietly, keeping her voice neutral as to not provoke him. He had quite the temper when he wanted to act up, and she didn't want to stimulate him further into the wall he was building around himself. A fortress now, but there was still gaps where she could break through, reach to him. A direct interrogation could lead to that fortress becoming impenetrable.

He angled his head slightly, signalling he was listening, but still kept up his silent act. She didn't want to be the only source of conversation; this wasn't a talk that could be one-sided. And she didn't want him pretending to pay attention then leaving a few seconds later. So she too kept quiet, waiting for him to respond. It was interesting, watching him like this. Watching his eyes never waver from their staring into space, watching his fingers slowly intertwine and relax. He sat completely still, yet he was never immobile. If he wasn't playing with his hands, he was tracing his foot against the carpet, or playing with the edge of the handcuffs which still hung from each wrist, as she was too worried of injuring his wrist by prying them off.

"What is there to say?"

Her head shot up as he spoke, his voice unusually quiet, as if he was in deep thought. She knew him to well to believe that ruse however. He was pretending that he was off thinking about some case, about something entirely different, but they both knew that wasn't the case. He was attempting to block out the world, shield himself, not try and solve a case.

"Do you really think that needs answering?" She asked, bemused expression on her face, but she brightened considerably when she heard an involuntary chuckle pass his lips. Well, if he was laughing, at least a small chuckle counted for him, he was paying attention to what she was saying. She turned to face him, drawing her legs up onto the couch. "You go on a rant about socks, you disappear at the police station, one minute your phone's just ringing out, the next it goes straight to voice-mail, then you turn up..." She paused, swallowing for a second as she caught the darkening expression on his face, but ploughed onward, "High, handcuffed, not to mention the fact you could barely walk. Quite a few questions that need answering there."

There was a brief lull in the conversation, as one-sided as it was, where he didn't say anything, but his jaw continued to clench and unclench, before he finally turned his gaze towards her. His expression and eyes gave nothing away, besides the fact the green irises were still glazed, and she knew from experience with other clients that he was still slightly under the effects. It would take an hour or so at most for him to return to himself.

If he ever did.

"The socks needs addressed first, to prove my sanity is still in tact." He offered her a small, consoling smile, before delving into his explanation. "Adam's file said he was colour blind. The guard's socks didn't match."

"That could have been coincidence." She didn't realize she interrupted his tangent until he gave her a glare so resembling a puppy whose favorite toy had been taken away, the usual Sherlock, that she couldn't help a grin. "Sorry. Continue."

"As I was saying," He cleared his throat dramatically, something which was rewarded with a small foot shove from Joan, "It could have been coincidence, but in this field of work, you need to learn that coincidences rarely occur. Everything has a pattern, Watson. It's our job to connect the dots, so to speak."

She was stunned into silence by his words, something which rarely occurred. _Our job. _She had failed in her role as a sober companion, yet why did he continue to group them together? If, and when, Sherlock's father found out about the incident, she would surely be fired, moved onto her next client. He would probably be shipped off to another rehab, or sent out onto the streets for not abiding to his father's terms. She felt a sudden wave of hatred for the man, and didn't really blame Sherlock for hating him so much. She barely realized he was continuing on his explanation, too overwhelmed by the simplicity yet power of the word _our._

"-They weren't working alone. They...Enlisted the aid of someone I knew from London. Professor Moriarty." The poison lacing the name was evident, he spat it as if it was some vulgar swear word contaminating his tongue. She repeated the name in her mind, committing it to memory, before asking, "And how did you know this Professor?"

He hesitated to answer, mouth remaining partially opened as his eyebrows furrowed. He was saved explanation when his phone suddenly rang, causing them both to jump a mile, their simultaneous yelps echoing the apartment. He pulled out his mobile, squinting at the caller I.D, before handing it to Joan. She took the still ringing thing as if it was a bomb, staring from him to the device.

"He'll get suspicious if he hears my..." He made a vague hand gesture that absolutely did _not _clarify what he was trying to express, but she rolled her eyes and clicked answer anyway.

_"Hello?"_

_"Miss Watson? Where's Sherlock? He owes me some damn explanations."_

_"He's...here. He's fine, all things considering."_

_"All what considering?"_

_Sherlock made some frantic gestures, an over-dramatic shake of the head and slicing of his fingers across his throat. She wasn't entirely sure if he was signalling no, cut it out, or he would kill her if she explained, looking at his deranged hair and glassy eyes, she couldn't be too sure it wasn't the former. _

_"Nothing. Look, I'll get him to explain everything later, okay?"  
_

_"Fine, but tell him we found Ryan and Adam half an hour ago. They said they have a message for him. A package too."_

Unfortunately, Sherlock heard this, and he leaped forward, trying to grab the phone. A wrestling match ensued, with Sherlock attempting to pry the phone from Joan, but her stubbornness set in. She knew that he would want to go to the police station, find out everything from them, but she didn't want him leaving the house in this state. He seemed to have calmed considerably from his previous state of numbness, and she didn't want to jeopardize his recovery by a confrontation. The scuffle continued as she bit his hand, an immediate reflex, causing him to yelp and pull his hand away, looking shocked. She wasn't mistaken when she saw hints of amusement in his eyes however.

_"Uh, everything okay?"_

_"Yes, everythin-"_

She was disrupted by the sight of a pillow being aimed her way, and managed to deflect it, but there was already another launched her way. In the effort it took to run aside, he sidled past her, slipping the phone from her grip and bounding onto the couch, holding the phone out of her reach.

_"Captain Gregson? It's Sherlock. We'll be there in twenty, don't start till we're there."_

Before he could reply, Sherlock had already hung up, returning his phone to his pocket. Joan was standing, hands on hips, formidable expression on her face, hair rumpled. "Hey, you bit me. And hello, traumatized victim here."

"That's not gonna be the only reason you're gonna be traumatized." She muttered as she retrieved her jacket, not before she threw the two pillows back at him. He dodged the first one, and there was something triumphant about the sound of impact as the second hit his arm.

* * *

_So yeah, Sherlock may seem relatively normal/sane compared to usual standards, but withdrawal and re-meeting Ryan and Adam isn't gonna be too fuuuuuun! Roll on the angst!_

_Again, your reviews are so lovely and encouraging, and much appreciated!_


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